Detective, Doctor, Thief, Diamond
by whytejigsaw
Summary: Post TRF, Sherlock convinces Molly to help him on a case involving an international jewel thief. The catch: she must leave her job, pretend to be someone she is not & she doesn't think she can do it. A Sherlolly story. Betaed by Thinkswithpen
1. The Premise

**Dedicated to my dear friend KendraPendragon on her birthday. Betaed by ThinkswithPen as always.**

Though she had helped him, sheltered him, patched up wounds and been a good listener, Molly Hooper had not been surprised when Sherlock Holmes resumed his traditional behaviour after his resurrection. In her secret dreams, she might have hoped for a warmer, friendlier relationship but it wasn't realistic. He really was a machine.

Sherlock and John were reunited, in work and friendship if not in domestic arrangements. John's girlfriend, soon to be wife, Mary Morstan had flat-out laughed at Sherlock's suggestion that they both move back into Baker St with him. John was quick to side with Mary, even if Sherlock knew a tiny part of him would have agreed if Mary had.

It was as if two years hadn't passed. Sherlock would breeze into the morgue, demanding unreasonable things. Molly would acquiesce with genuine keenness. John would grimace in the background. One day after they'd left Molly, her eyes brimming with tears because Sherlock had commented that she looked like a 14 year old that day. It was true: what adult wore jumpers with kittens prancing around?

"Sherlock, that was really harsh. There's no need for that level of personal comment. I thought you'd learnt your lesson all those Christmases ago," he chided.

His former flatmate let out a long sigh, allowing his body to visibly deflate.

"I know. I can't help it."

"Yes, you can. Just shut your trap. Think it but don't say it. She doesn't deserve it…even if she hadn't helped you with Moriarty, she wouldn't deserve it."

"Should I apologise again?"

"Of course. And you know it without asking it. You're not that socially retarded!"

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.

Molly sat at her desk. She was allowing herself 5 minutes to wallow. She thought about what Sherlock had said. In truth, she had bought the jumper in a teen department. Her small stature meant that those clothes fitted her, and though she didn't need to make the saving, kids clothes were cheaper. If I was in a film, she thought, I'd go out, buy a whole new wardrobe and look like dynamite the next time Sherlock appeared at work. He'd taken one look, scoop her into his arms, and declare what an idiot he'd been all this time. She sighed. Why did no one ever tell young girls that these kind of romantic comedies almost never happened in real life? It was much more chance and then, if you got on reasonably well, you'd go out for a while. Nothing was ever spectacular. It was like Jim had once said, apparently, stayin' alive….it's just staying… With no particular resolutions made, and certainly no plans for shopping, Molly noticed her 5 minutes were up, and went back to work.

John and Sherlock had been working a case to do with an international jewel thief. It wasn't the usual sort of thing Sherlock concerned himself with but he'd wanted a case that didn't involve St. Barts for a while. Jewellery seemed just the ticket.

"You know, John, this case is proving trickier than I initially suspected."

"Well, let's go over it."

"I really don't need you to summarise," said Sherlock curtly.

"Indulge me. The Monk, aka Heinrich Ames, has been operating a precious gem smuggling business for at least 7 years. He's never been caught. There's only one known photograph of him and no record of his life in Germany before 2002, so he's probably using an alias. He now steals to order."

"What we need, John, is to set up a sting. Draw him out."

"How do you propose we do it?"

"I don't know yet." Sherlock lay on the couch and resumed his traditional prayer pose.

John regarded him for a moment and then decided to go buy some takeaway for them.

Over an hour later, Sherlock opened his eyes.

"John!" he called excitedly. Receiving no answer, he went into the kitchen to find John reading a newspaper, the remnants of a curry beside him.

"I have it," he announced.

John set down his paper, indicating he was ready to listen.

"We'll set up a customer for the Monk. It'll be something of a long con. She'll pose as a rich bored trophy wife and eventually, she'll procure a meeting with the Monk, where she will ask him to steal the Hope Diamond."

"What's the hope diamond?"

"Oh, only the most famous jewel ever. It was owned by Marie Antoinette amongst many others. Some say it is cursed but even wikipedia's article will show you how most of its owners died normally."

"Who owns it now?"

"The Smithsonian. We'll need their help of course."

"You mean, you actually want him to steal it?"

"No! I want him to attempt it at a time of our choosing."

"So we're going to involve Mycroft then?"

"Well, yes, I suppose."

"No doubt he'll have a suitable female agent for the role."

"Oh I'm sure, but I already have someone in mind!"

"Not Irene Adler?"

"No, and aren't you supposed to be pretending she's in witness protection so as to spare my feelings from thinking she's dead?"

John coughed awkwardly.

"You knew about that then?"

"Yes, I happened to have been passing Karachi and helped her out of that little problem."

"Happened to be passing Karachi?" John spluttered.

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently. "Never mind all that. Though she is in America. She's far too notorious."

"Then who?"

"Molly Hooper."

"You can't be serious."

"She's perfect."

John filed away that comment for later analysis before speaking.

"She's a doctor, raised by her father in an ordinary English middle-class suburban setting. She has no acting training. There's no way she could pull off the about face required."

"She'll be great," Sherlock reiterated.

"She hasn't even agreed yet."

Sherlock merely smiled.

"I hope that grinning maniacally at her isn't your plan to get her to agree. You already treat her badly enough."

"Oh she won't be in any danger. We'll be watching her."

John simply folded his arms, knowing there was no point arguing with him in this mood. Mycroft would change his mind.


	2. The Victim

Much to John's chagrin, Mycroft was going along with the idea. He'd even offered to loan Anthea to help. The next trick was to get Molly to agree.

Sherlock dressed with care before going down to St Barts, John in tow. The whole way there he endured pleading from John.

"Sherlock, this is a terrible idea. She'll say no."

"She won't say no."

"Well, I hate to say this, she probably won't say no but she could easily screw the whole thing up. You need someone trained."

"Nonsense. Someone untrained is exactly what we need to pull this off."

They timed their arrival to coincide with Molly's lunch break. She was just walking out the door as they approached.

"Ah Molly, excellent timing. John and I are taking you for lunch."

"You are? Why?" Her eyes narrowed.

"We have something to discuss. Come along."

Molly followed as Sherlock led her to one of the family rooms.

The 3 sat at the table.

"Sherlock, why have you taken me to one of the bad news rooms?"

"The what?"

"This is where doctors take relatives to tell them bad news. Furthermore, I don't see any lunch."

"Right. John?"

"I'm going."

Sherlock waited for the door to close and then reached across the table to take Molly's hand.

"Molly…" he began.

"What are you doing? This is bad news. Do you have some incurable disease?"

"What? No. I have a plan and need your help."

"I'm not faking your death again."

"Nothing like that. It's quite simple. I need you take a leave of absence, take on a new persona and lure an international jewel thief."

She stared at him, dumb struck.

"Didn't you hear me?"

"I heard you…I think you're mixing me up with someone else, and am now wondering if you have a brain tumour."

She extricated her hand.

"And if you think holding my hand will make me agree, then you are more stupid than I thought."

"You think I'm stupid?"

"Yes…no, don't twist my words. There's no way I could do something like that Sherlock."

"Of course you could. It would be child's play in comparison to all the lies you told to help me before. All this needs is a new wardrobe, a fancy apartment, some appearances in the right places. 2 months tops."

"What kind of danger is involved?"

Sherlock smiled, knowing he was winning her over.

"None at all. We'll be in regular contact, covertly of course."

John returned with distinctly unappetising sandwiches for all.

"Well, has he told you the plan?"

"He has."

"Please tell me you have not agreed to this madness."

"She has not but I estimate she is 4-7 minutes away from agreement," Sherlock cut in.

Molly opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. She reached for one of the sandwiches and very slowly opened the packaging.

John did the same, while Sherlock watched Molly intently. He was far too confident of success to bother with further communication.

Finally, after 9 minutes, though he was sure she waited just so he could be wrong, she spoke.

"Who would look after my cat?"

"Mrs Hudson."

"Sherlock, you haven't even asked her!" said John.

"What old lady wouldn't want a cat?"

"My job here would be secure?"

"Naturally. And all your expenses will be paid."

John decided to try for sanity one last time.

"Molly, I implore you, don't give in to him on this. It's a terrible plan."

"You think I couldn't do it?" she snapped.

"You said so yourself only a few minutes ago."

"Sherlock, where do we start?"

Sherlock looked smugly at John, who couldn't see him because he'd buried his head on the table under his arms.

"You two are crazy and deserve each other," he said indistinctly.

"We start with a visit to Mike Stamford."

Having Mycroft Holmes on your team certainly made things smoother. By the end of the day, Molly was released from work for an indefinite period, officially "seconded" to a hospital up north. She arrived home to find Sherlock and a surly woman, surgically attached to her phone, waiting for her.

"What you didn't feel you should break in with other people?" she quipped.

Once they were inside, Sherlock spoke up.

"Molly, allow me to introduce Anthea. She is Mycroft's PA and will assist you with our project."

"Nice to meet you."

"I'm sure," grinned Anthea.

Sherlock surprised everyone by announcing he'd put the kettle on.

"I can see we have a lot of work to do," said Anthea.

"What do you mean?" asked Molly, mildly offended.

"Well, just off the top of my head, we'll need to colour and style your hair, get you a new wardrobe, for adult women, work on your accent and get you used to acting spoiled rotten."

Molly gulped. It did sound like a lot of work.

Sherlock returned.

"Anthea, no surgery or cosmetic alterations allowed. Do it all with makeup and hair colour."

"Why does everyone want to change my hair?"

Sherlock began to speak but Anthea cut him off.

"Molly, dear, no self-respecting trophy wife would have hair that long. It has to be blonde and styled within an inch of its life. Don't worry. You'll have regular stylist appointments. That's how we'll keep in touch."

"I don't understand."

"Well, don't tell anyone, but MI5 has the best hairdressers, and they just happen to have a salon on the south bank."

While Molly processed that, Sherlock took over.

"Now, you can't bring anything at all with you from current life. So when you leave her tomorrow morning, just take your handbag as if you were going to work. Anthea will take care of it."

"What about Toby?"

"I'll take him home tomorrow after you've left."

She sat down on the couch, daunted by the task ahead of her. Sherlock kneeled in front of her and took her hands.

"I know you can do this," he said seriously.

"Thanks. I don't know why you want me though. Surely Mycroft has someone better."

"The Monk is too good for that…he'll sniff them out."

"If he can figure out genuine spies, he'll spot me instantly."

"No, that's not the way he operates. And it'll be about 5 weeks before we even begin that play. For now, you're just going to settle into your new life."

"What's my name going to be?"

"Still Molly, with a new surname, Pearson."

"And who is my husband?"

Sherlock looked a little guilty.

"Well, me, but not as myself. It occasionally suits me to pretend to be Harry Pearson, a shady organised crime boss from the East End. Only 2 people have seen me as Pearson, and they administer the rest of the gang. I've deliberately cultivated an occluded aura, which allows the real me to come and go as I please. I'll introduce you to these men and let them look after you, and then I'll be out of the picture most of the time, which is what they are used to. Can you do an American accent?"

"Er, probably, why?"

"I've told my minions that I've been in America for a while. It'll work that I've come back with a lovely wife."

"Ok….look, this is a lot to take in. Would you two mind leaving me for the evening? I want to say a proper goodbye to Toby."

"Of course, Molly, I'll collect you at 9am tomorrow morning. Just your handbag, remember."

She nodded.


	3. The Make-over

Molly awoke early, after a night of fitful dreams. She was going to call the whole thing off. It was total madness. She grabbed her phone and discovered a text from Sherlock which read "you will be fine, I have complete confidence in you". Grinning at both his ability to say the right thing and his know-it-all antics, she headed for the shower, and was ready for Anthea when buzzed the door at 9am promptly.

They sat in a fancy car and headed towards an undisclosed location, driving for almost an hour. Molly had just decided that the whole thing was an elaborate joke, when they pulled up outside what looked like a warehouse. She looked askance at Anthea.

"We're going to do most of the changes here. I've assembled stylists, clothes, handbags and shoes."

"Anthea, surely you agree that this is a terrible idea."

Anthea put down her phone, a momentous move, which Molly did not properly appreciate.

"Molly, Sherlock and Mycroft believe you can do this, and that's good enough for me. Now stop moaning and focus. There's a lot of work to do. Just be glad you don't need to go on a diet too!"

They walked into the warehouse to be greeted by Eric, the gayest straight man Molly had ever met.

"Right, darling, we've a lot to do. Let me introduce my team: Sharon on hair, Trudy on make-up, Bea on waxing, Karen: accessories and I'll do clothes & general coaching. Sharon's going to make a start on your hair and while your colour is setting, we'll take a look at some outfits."

Rather overwhelmed, Molly allowed herself to be led to a chair in front of a table but no mirror. She was gowned up and Sharon began pasting a cold, wet dye on her hair.

"Why no mirror?" she asked.

"I prefer to look at my client directly. Don't worry, I know what I'm doing. You won't look like a WAG. It'll be an obviously professional blonde dye job. We'll be topping up the roots every six weeks."

Molly had hoped they'd be done before that but chose instead to ask about styling.

"Oh yes, I'm glad you asked…I know you want to keep the length but at least 6 inches will have to go. Just below shoulder length, with a couple of layers for some definition. Really, love, no one over 20 should have hair down to her elbows."

This was a bit too close to a Sherlock-type comment. Molly buttoned her lip and tried not to pout as Sharon cover her hair in some kind of shower cap.

What followed was like a movie-montage, at least in Molly's head. She was waxed, buffed, tinted, tanned, manicured and shown a dizzying array of slightly trashy designer clothes. Mrs Pearson apparently liked animal prints and Prada bags. Finally, she was returned to Sharon, who did indeed cut quite a bit of her now blonde hair off.

Anthea returned just as they were finishing up.

"Don't I get to see it?" pleaded Molly.

"No, wait until they've done your make-up and dressed you up. That way you'll get the full effect at once."

Eric came over. "Great, you're ready. Now, there's one other member of the team to meet."

He gestured behind him and a small red-haired woman with glasses came towards them.

"This is Kate Harrison. She'll be your vocal coach."

"I understand you can do a basic American accent. I'll help you use the right words, tones and place your accent in a geographical location that will work with the identity we've built up for you," said Kate, her own American accent placing her firmly in the Gone with the Wind area of that country.

"Gosh…this is more elaborate than I realised."

"Well, you'll fool Brits easily but if you have to meet Americans, they'll catch you out. But don't worry, I'm very good at my job."

"Right, well, what's next?"

"Let's get you dressed and then we'll go look at real estate."

Half an hour later, she stared at her new image in the mirror. Blonde shoulder length hair, check, tight black dress, check, ridiculously high Louboutins, check, white leather jacket, check, enormous leopard print bag, check. Not forgetting more make-up than she'd ever worn cumulatively in her life.

"I look horrid."

"Yes, but you'll fit right in," said Anthea.

They got back into the car and set off.

"Where will I be living?"

"Whitechapel – close to Harry's business area but in a modern apartment block."

"Will it also be trashy?"

"No, Molly Pearson, the American, is absolutely enchanted with the British way of life, all things Downton Abbey, etc, so you'll be living in the height of Edwardian chic…or at least a modern version of it. No one had comfortable chairs in the 1920s," explained Anthea.

"So afternoon tea and church fetes?"

"Something like that…along with your daily session with your trainer, weekly visits to your spa, shopping and so on."

"How often will I see Sherlock?"

"Not very. I'll be your main point of contact along with his two minions."

"Why don't you tell me about the minions, before I start addressing them that way."

Anthea handed over a folder. She was always prepared. Molly spent the rest of the journey reading about Rick Heathcote and Mick Donnelly, two East-end petty criminals who'd be selected by Sherlock for greater things about 6 years ago. He'd made sure to keep all aspects of his business segmented, so these were the only two he ever met with.

"How much am I supposed to know about Harry's business?"

"You only know about the legit stuff but we'll play it by ear, it may become useful for you to suspect. Now, when we arrive at your place, you'll have about an hour to acquaint yourself with the surroundings."

"What happens then?"

"Show time."

Anthea let Molly into a 2 storey penthouse apartment and handed her a set of keys, complete with a diamond encrusted M.

The main hall way had corridors to the left and right with a black and white check tiled floor. A big bowl of flowers stood on a side table. To the left, Molly found a large show house kitchen and dining area.

"Don't worry, you won't be doing any entertaining," said Anthea.

"What about regular eating?!"

"The kitchen will be fully stocked, and you have a housekeeper."

The kitchen led on to a large reception room, decked out like the library in Downton Abbey, except it also had a grand piano, a 40" flat screen tv and easy chairs for reading. When Molly stopped to examine the bookcases, she discovered a lot of the books were leather bound telephone directories. Only one small section contained real books. A window wall allowed spectacular views of London. Passing through the reception room, which Molly couldn't ever imagine being comfortable in, she found a study, obviously set up for "Harry" with a computer and other modern office equipment. Lastly, she found herself at the other end of the corridor, with a guest bathroom tucked under a stairs. Anthea indicated she should continue her tour upstairs, where she found a home gym, a guest bedroom dressed like a bordello in purple and red, a lounge area with couches, another television with a serious games console and a substantial dvd collection. The last room was more a suite, containing a dressing room, master bedroom and adjoining bathroom. 4 Louis Vuitton cases sat on the floor.

"What do you think?" asked Anthea, with a twinkle in her eye.

"It's spectacular in a really nasty trashy way. I feel like I'm on one of those hideous reality shows. I presume those bags are full of my new clothes?"

"Correct. The housekeeper, Wendy, will be along shortly with Mick and Rick to meet you. Don't worry, Sherlock will be there too."

"And what role do you play in all this?"

"I'm your assistant, but you'll contact me by phone rather than my being based here with you. Remember, you're a bored housewife who is too rich to do housework."

"Right."

At that, they heard the front door opening and Sherlock's voice called "Molly!" loudly. They hurried down the stairs as fast as Molly's shoes could take her.

Sherlock was standing facing the window in the main room. "Excellent, Molly, there you are," he said turning around. His jaw hung open at the sight before him, amazed at the transformation.

Molly held her arms out and did a small twirl, wry grin on her face. She was under no illusions about her appearance.

"You look shocking! It's absolutely perfect, of course. Anthea, your team is to be commended. Now, off you pop and make some tea. Molly likes everything nice and English."

Anthea's smirk wafted out of the room leaving Molly and Sherlock alone.

"Sherlock…" she started.

"Harry…get used to it. We won't be in company very often but I can't have you slipping up. And don't forget the accent."

"Alright, Harry, what's our story?" she replied in her best American accent.

"What story?"

"Our love story…we've got to have one."

"Hmm, well, Mick & Rick will be here shortly so there's no time to think one up now. Let's go with…" he paused, thinking.

"Obviously, we met in Las Vegas. You were there for business, I was on a batchelorette weekend. We hit off. You followed me back to Chicago, where I lived, chased me, wore me down, won me over and we were married 4 weeks ago at the court house. It was fantastic," said Molly, a little bit too dreamily.

"Right, well, I'll leave you to fill in the blanks. Oh I almost forgot."

He put his hand in his pocket and it re-emerged with 2 rings. Dropping them in Molly's palm, he said "You better stick these on."

Molly shrugged. If she'd entertained a fantasy about a certain detective putting a ring on her finger, today was not the day for fulfilment. She examined the rings. The engagement was a monstrous diamond, surrounded by square cut emeralds in a solid boxy gold setting. The wedding ring was obviously designed to go with it. Nothing small, antique or tasteful for Molly Pearson, it seemed. She placed them on her finger, momentarily stunned by the weight of them. How did people wear these all the time?

The buzzer rang.

"Show time," she said.


End file.
